


deo non fortuna

by ThinkingCAPSLOCK



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Description Heavy, God!Bokuto, God/Mortal AU, M/M, Magic, Mortal!Akaashi, Star Gods AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 02:51:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5768557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThinkingCAPSLOCK/pseuds/ThinkingCAPSLOCK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(by God, not by luck)</p><p>Bokuto would never admit to playing favourites among Mortals. He is a God, after all. But some days, some mornings, Bokuto treks his way to a certain pool in the Heavens, just to feel closer to the Mortal he Blessed.</p><p>-</p><p>  <i>"Why not try and speak to him in a dream?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	deo non fortuna

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Obliviousham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obliviousham/gifts).



> a place where all the planets and celestial beings are gods, and where mortals pray to them and receive magic in return. a place of flowers and sunrises and distance. 
> 
> the aesthetic.
> 
> set in a middling spot in the universe, so buckle yourself in. happy birthday, holly. i love you!
> 
> edit feb2016: obliviousham has done art! here's [the tag for it](hollymcgillis.tumblr.com/tagged/god-AU), check out their work!

* * *

 Gods are rivers, that flow into the sea and never end.  
Stories, that begin and tangle and interweave and are all one.  
The sun, that rises and sets and rises.  
Which is why we come among you. To know what grief is. What love is.  
_-The Archon, Catherine Fisher_

* * *

 

It's always been a puzzle to Bokuto as to how there can be wind in the Heavens. He'sasked the other Gods, both in his system and the ones from Beyond (when they deem to visit), but none have ever answered him, or even seemed to care. Bokuto cannot seem to wring the answer from anyone on how the wind finds its way to them. Instead, the playing of air against his face and the ripples in the pool of water in front of him remain a mystery, even as he lies down at the edge of the water's surface.

He shifts on the fine grass, feeling his robes twist around him (and he knows he's giving himself grass stains) until he's comfortable. With a wave of his hand, the water stills, though the breeze continues around him.

There are many ways to watch the Mortals. As the Sun, Bokuto can observe them through any gap in the clouds, through any twist of the light, from a candle to an enchanted cavern to the glow of a firefly. He can watch through panes of glass, through mirrors, through focusing his own mind down through the lengthy tunnels and eons that separate the Gods from their followers.

As a God, Bokuto can do very much, with a mere flick of his finger or wink of his eye.

But some days, some mornings, Bokuto treks his way past the retiring Gods, who become drained and tired as he becomes alert, to the small pool at the edge of the Plains. He passes through the gazebo, made of ornate and white polished marble and roofed in blacks and reds, and past the home of Mars. Some days the mysterious wind guides him through the fields of thistle and wheat, and some days he dodges the roots and stocks on his own.

The pool is always there, always waiting, half ringed by black rock and cattails and half by clipped, tidy grass. After a few months experimenting, Bokuto realized the grass made a much comfier place to rest than a slab of uneven rock, and has always chosen the same spot to lie on since.

It is a special place for him, amid the breezes and scents and the blue-green waters.

It's the first place he heard Akaashi Pray to him.

 

* * *

 

"I thought I heard you wandering around on my property again. Not cool, Bo."

The phrase is delivered with enough sarcasm that Bokuto knows Kuroo isn't remotely angry. Bokuto rolls onto his back, propping himself halfway to a sitting position on his elbows, giving his slyest grin.

"Bit late for you to be so full of energy, Kuroo. I thought you needed your beauty sleep."

"I'm never too tired to pick a fight. Comes with the territory," Kuroo replies, offering a hand. Bokuto takes it and pulls himself to his feet, graceful and fluid. Kuroo's hand is smoke and cinder, rough palmed and long fingered, with little warmth. It's familiar and fits well against Bokuto's.

Kuroo gives his hand a squeeze before letting it go, his dark eyes taking in Bokuto's grass stained belly ("Good work, Sun God."), and then falling over the stilled surface of the pool. With a headshake and a hand wave, the wind returns, and the surface becomes a pattern of spinning lines.

The air is silent but for the breeze for a long time. Bokuto takes in the clear sky for a moment and closes his eyes, feeling the Heavens twirl around, a great cosmic shift and stir no Mortal could feel or understand. He feels himself being pulled in every direction, hears the distant mutter of Prayers from below, feels power creaking its way through his bones and spirit into his soul as daybreak begins for the Mortals below.

"Were you watching him again, Bo?" Kuroo's words cut through the sensation, rooting Bokuto back to the Plains and the pool. He clears his throat and opens his eyes.

"I wanted to hear his morning Prayer from here," Bokuto insists. "You know he's my Blessed one. It's only proper to give him extra attention sometimes."

Kuroo raises an eyebrow, speaking volumes in silence at Bokuto's interest in his Blessed, and how often Bokuto considers 'sometimes', and how he knows Bokuto is telling a half-truth. It is much harder to lie to a God than it is to a Mortal. Bokuto finds he can't hold Kuroo's gaze, instead opting to wander to the far edge of the pool, touching the tips of the cattails as he walks. His back is firmly kept towards the other God.

"You could just admit it. We are friends, and I already know." Kuroo's voice calls across the water, another ripple on the surface of the pool, a twist in Bokuto's core, settling just underneath the flow of power in his body.

The wind keeps pressing his cheeks and his fingers twist into a fist around a stock. He sits on one of the rocks and stares back down at the pool. Bokuto realizes he is having a very hard time admitting that he may, just may, be a bit more interested in Akaashi than he should be.

 

* * *

 

Akaashi wakes as he always does: a bit before dawn, feeling bleary eyed and not quite rested enough, to candlelight playing across his face from the candle he blew out the night before.

He lifts the two thin sheets off his legs as he sits up, dragging a hand down his face. He stares at the small writing table beside his bed, the owl feather quill still sitting where he left it. The parchment is crisp, dated yesterday, the brief scribbles of his dream scrawled there.

Today, there was no dream, or if there was, Akaashi has not the power to remember it. He gives a sigh, the breath flickering the candle, but not putting it out. The dancing light spreads shadows along the wall, and Akaashi is reminded of what, exactly, he needs to do. He walks to his armoire, pulling out new robes, smoothing them over his head. His gloves come next, then boots, and he fastens the cloak over his shoulders.

Before he leaves, he turns back, blowing out the candle. The grey light of pre-dawn filters through the gaps in his curtains, outlining the stacks of paper on his desk, the somewhat organized boxes beneath it, the rolls and rolls of parchment measuring the stars and the instruments to guide him. Right now, he needs none of them, and steps into the hall.

He follows the wooden floor through the familiar twists and turns, down the flight of stairs. It's moments before he ducks through the small kitchen and out the back door.

Behind his small house is a weaving dirt path, bordered by hydrangeas and pink oleanders that he keeps. Akaashi's boots sound heavy as he moves, the air rustling his cape and tunic, and he presses them to his side to avoid disturbing the flowers as he moves. It isn't long before he can start to smell salt and feel the damp air hit his face. He's reached the end of the path, and the eastern edge of the island.

The cliff is a jagged cut in the land, and while there is a way down, few people take it to the rocky shore below. Akaashi comes here to feel the breeze, to stand on the edge and look down, to watch the Sun break out over the horizon. He may have chosen the house he stays at because of how far east it is. He might not have. (He knows Kenma suspects he did).

He takes a moment to breathe deeply. He closes his eyes. He clears his mind. When he opens them again, the Sun is peeking out on the horizon.

Daybreak.

The dark blue of the sky and ocean give way to reds and oranges, bright white reflections on the crests of waves. The colours are stronger than sunset, brighter than noontime. Akaashi can't stare for too long, and he knows his limits, but every day he marvels at the differences in hues and shades as the sun peeks bare inches over the edge of the world. How the light and fire can change even the sea itself. How the power bleeds into the clouds and into his chest. When he feels the hints of warmth from the beams on his face, Akaashi knows it's time to close his eyes.

And then he Prays.

He greets the morning sky, the stars, the planets. He thanks the Moon, still a half cusp mid way through the purple rimmed sky. Finally, he greets his God, soft words under his breath. Akaashi turns his palms upwards, spreading his arms to his sides before raising them over his head and threading his fingers in a steeple.

"O God of Light and Life, guide us today. Let us walk in your ways. Give us the power to follow you and the strength to continue on the path."

The words roll off his tongue as the waves roll into the rocks below, loud crashes, much louder than his Prayer, but Akaashi knows his God is listening anyway. He pulls his hands back down, against his chest, feeling his power churn.

"Thank you for bringing us your light, and thank you for teaching us and holding us in your hand." He pauses, cracking open an eye just in time to see the hot pinks sprinkle into the ocean and the faintest traces of light blues pouring in at the edge of his vision. He gives a small smile.

"And _please_ stop lighting the candle beside my bed."

 

* * *

 

"Akaashi!!" Hinata's voice calls across the square, the little bob of orange hair and bright coloured robes ducking between townsfolk. Akaashi waits beside the fruit stall, even managing to bite into his apple before Hinata appears before him.

"Did you get any dreams last night? Did you hear anything from him? Some mega-cosmic event? Does he want us to go to war with a nation?" Hinata's eyes blaze and, even standing, he can't keep still. His entire form buzzes. His fingers lock together, then fiddle with his tunic's hem, then run through his hair. He rolls from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again.

"I don't remember any dreams from last night," Akaashi replies. He takes another bite of apple. Hinata's small form deflates two inches down. "Don't pout. Let's go to the meeting and see what the others say."

"If he didn't message you, Akaashi, he probably didn't message anyone. He did Bless you," Hinata's words come out around his pout, his cheeks puffed. Akaashi offers him the rest of the apple, and within three bites Hinata's finished it. The two begin to walk their way towards the edge of the square.

Akaashi keeps quiet, nodding to passing villagers he recognizes. Hinata chats on about his last dream eight nights ago, his most recent attempts to light the fireplace, and the growth of his garden ("I managed to grow a pumpkin!"). Akaashi takes in the bustle of the stone streets, the brick and wood of the houses, the bright colours and patterns on each dwelling that grow sparse as they reach the end of the market.

Ahead, its four corner spires reaching upwards to the Heavens, lies the Sun Temple. Stretching east to west, patterned with gold foils that glitter even from this distance. The path is lined with dogwood in full bloom. The entrance is a large arch, bordered by thick spackled marble columns. Windows of stained glass line the northern and southern sides, with the east and west both open to the breeze and light. A domed roof, yellow and orange, sits in the middle.

A large, pattern-tiled Sun sits at the crest of the entrance arch, welcoming Hinata and Akaashi inside. The building smells like salt water and pine smoke, and Hinata's chatterings echo off the walls, ornate with statues, calligraphy, and murals, depicting the wonders of the God. The interior of the domed roof, visible now from where they stand, is covered with the patterns and constellations of the Heavens, the thick dark blue matted with the silvers and whites of the stars.

It's Akaashi's second home. Or perhaps his first.

They head together towards one of the small meeting rooms. Akaashi lights the candles as they walk past, a flick of the wrist from five, ten feet away to get the wick burning soft and yellow. He absently wonders why no one had done this yet today. Perhaps he and Hinata are the first ones in.

Hinata tries to light a candle in the distance and sets a ten-foot tall beam of blue fire straight into the air. He screams, dragging his hands down his cheeks and then waving them frantically and accomplishing nothing. Akaashi contains it with a thought, and squashes it with another wave of the hand, a small scorch mark and the tiniest puddle of wax present on the wall where the candle had sat.

"I'm so sorry Akaashi!" Hinata yells. He slams his hands together and bows incredibly low. Akaashi fears he's going to smash his face into the floor. "I'm still not very good at this! I've got no control..."

"It comes with practice," Akaashi replies. He offers a quick Prayer of apology for the damage to the temple. "And I'm not the one you should apologize to right now."

"Ah! You're right! O God of Light and Life, Bo-"

Akaashi's glare silences him instantly. "Hinata. Don't say his name over something trivial like this. It's for holy occasions. Think it, if you must, but don't say it."

Hinata gulps and nods. He finishes the Prayer in silence. After the short lull, he turns to Akaashi again, his eyes still full of disappointment. "You make it seem so simple..."

"I'm more powerful. For me, it is simple. But we're different. Don't try to focus your power on something so small too early. You're still learning, Hinata, and you've got to take it a step at a time."

"I know," Hinata says, his pout returning as he rights himself. "I just want to be as cool a mage as Kageyama is. _He_ doesn't have these problems."

Akaashi doesn't bother pointing out how many accidents Kageyama has had using his own powers. He also doesn't question why Hinata thinks Kageyama is the pinnacle of magical power, especially when he isn't even Blessed. Instead, Akaashi pushes the small door to the meeting room open, and ushers Hinata in ahead of him. The room, as he suspected, is empty of any other followers.

Perhaps, before the meeting begins, he can try and show Hinata a few tricks. It is his job being Blessed, after all. He wouldn't make a very good leader if he couldn't even do that.

 

* * *

 

"He really is a good guy, Bo. I can see why you Blessed him."

Bokuto chooses not to reply. He sits in the window seat of Kuroo's villa, the open archway letting the fresh air in. Beneath the window is a small garden of poppies, just barely in bloom. Kuroo has already warned Bokuto not to step on them in an attempt to flee, or else suffer the consequences. A glass of wine, half finished, sits beside his leg, the red liquid rippling in the crystal like the water in the pool.

Kuroo is undeterred by the lack of response, and he lounges on the cushions beside Bokuto, his grin stretching his face and hitting his eyes. His toga shifts as he gets comfortable. He pops a grape into his mouth and chews, loudly, slowly, popping every other bite, until Bokuto groans and stiffens and glares out at the flowers and statues littering the God's property.

"So, are you going to talk to me, or am I going to have to eat another grape?"

"There's nothing to tell," Bokuto huffs, shrugging his shoulders to his ears. "Don't you need to go to sleep?"

He senses, rather than sees, Kuroo wag his finger. "Now now, Bokuto, you know there's always conflict amongst Mortals, even if I can't be seen in the sky. It's enough to keep me awake to hear your problems, as is my duty as your long time friend and the God of Kindness."

"Kuroo, you're the God of War."

"I prefer to be termed the God of _Strategy_. Mortals are too quick to generalize us, aren't they? Mars, the Red Planet, the God of War, but little else about me matters to them," Kuroo's laugh is quick and barking, over before it's begun. "But don't change the topic. Tell me about him."

Watching the faint clouds and the ripping grasses, Bokuto does.

He tells of the Mortal Akaashi, studious, serious, focused. Sharp of mind. His studies of the stars, his commitment to Prayer, his utter dedication. He tells of his golden capes and dark tunics, of his sacred place where each morning Akaashi delivers a Prayer to the sunrise, how Bokuto first heard it by Kuroo's pool and how the sea and water and beams of light connect them together. He tells of Akaashi's first spell, of his discovery of his own power, of the day Bokuto marked him as his Blessed.

He avoids mentioning Akaashi's long lashes, his gentle fingers, the greens in his eyes that only appear when Bokuto's light catches in them, like they're gifts and Prays in their own right, just for Bokuto. He doesn't mention the soft songs Akaashi sings under his breath in the gardens to spread life. Bokuto doesn't mentioning how much he wishes to know what those hands feel like, or hear Akaashi's Prayers with his own ears. Nor does he mention the mess of curls and knots that is Akaashi's hair when he first wakes, or the smirk across his face when he bests someone in magic or talent or skills.

He definitely doesn't mention lighting the candle every night just to remind Akaashi he's there.

From the silence that thickens in the air, it seems Kuroo can guess those on his own. Bokuto downs the remainder of his wine, shifting his knees to his chest, placing his face down on them. He groans in the most dignified manner a God can.

Kuroo pops another grape into his mouth with a sickening squishy noise. "Why not try and speak to him in a dream?"

"I've tried before, Kuroo. You know how Mortals are. They get overconfident so _quickly_. They completely miss the target more times than they understand. They see symbols in truth and use symbols as weapons," Bokuto sighs, feeling himself sink further against his legs. "The only time I've properly visited, he told everyone and they took it as a sign to help the poor because I wore a ratty cloak. I don't know if there's a point trying again."

A tap on his shoulder makes him peek up. Kuroo leans forward, offering him a grape. Bokuto takes it, rolling it between his fingers, before eating it.

It's sour. It stings his mouth and throat all the way down.

"I'll try again tonight," Bokuto says.

"Wear a nicer cloak," Kuroo replies.

 

* * *

 

Akaashi stands in a field, dressed in a simple black tunic, wondering where his boots are.

The air is thick with a chill fog, and he rubs his hands against his arms to try and preserve some heat. His breath comes out as mist, and after a few steps, he feels the dampness of dew on his toes and vapor clinging to his hair. The ground is covered in weeds and grass, small shrubs and bushes poking out their heads. The sky is grey, unreadable. Akaashi cannot see past twenty feet in front of him.

He turns, seeing nothing else of note in every direction, his toes digging into dirt and mud and his fingers trembling from the chill. He wants gloves, he wants boots, he wants-

A flicker of light at the edge of his vision. He snaps his head around in time to catch the small orb of light bobbing five feet off the ground. It shoots into the fog, and without hesitation, Akaashi runs after it. The orbs fades and flickers in the white air, and Akaashi struggles to see. His feet scream and his lungs burn with chill, protesting the damp air. His hair plasters to his forehead.

He runs until he's sure it's been hours, until he's sure it's been days, until he's sure his legs are one more step away from collapsing. Slowly, surely, he closes in on the small orb. He reaches and hand out, fingers long, stretching, until-

One foot catches the root of a shrub and Akaashi goes crashing down. He skids hard on the side of his face, pain searing from ear to nose. He feels hot blood trickling over his foot from a deep scratch. He gasps and finds he can't breath, the air knocked out of him. For those few moments he lies on the cold, damp ground, inhaling chunks of thick muddy air, his vision dancing and his throat closing.

The only thing he can make out is the small orb of bouncing light. It gets closer and closer to his face, and when it comes near enough to touch, he reaches out with his hand to capture it. The movement is clumsy, slow, haggard.

The light explodes from between his fingers, blasting him onto his back. Akaashi squeezes his eyes shut even as they water. He feels warm and his hand burns and everything spins, his mind turning over and over. A strong wind blows in his face and over his body and he shudders, once.

Everything stops.

Akaashi feels his hand grow cold and the ground become more solid. His breathing becomes even, unhindered. His forehead is no longer damp. His body is not chilled. He opens his eyes to a bright blue sky, cloudless. The wind has become gentle, a bare touch on his cheek.

He sits up in bed of flowers. Small clovers and violets and buttercups between his fingers, toes. He touches his hair, and finds them clinging to his curls in clumps. The grass is a brilliant green under him, unusually soft. He casts his gaze around. For as far as his eyes can see, the flowers continue until the horizon in every direction, sometimes accompanied by small shrubs, the occasional olive tree. On the crest of a hill in the middle distance is a lone figure, wrapped in a cloak, unmoving. Waiting.

Very slowly, Akaashi gets to his feet, and though he checks his cheek and foot for injury, he finds none. He keeps his eyes on the strange figure, who seems to blur and change in the field. There's a cloak, but Akaashi cannot name the colour (somewhere between brown and black and grey and blue, and it's clean and well kept but rarely worn). There's boots, but the height and style impossible are to determine. There's the hem of an elaborately embroidered tunic, but the distance is too great for details. The figure has no face, the cloak's hood shadowing any feature.

Akaashi takes one step towards the figure, and finds himself standing beside them. The change makes Akaashi stumble, his body unbalanced, but he catches himself before he falls again. The figure's face is still hidden, even from a few feet away, the shadow as dark as the night. Akaashi _knows_ the shadow is unnatural and the land is unnatural and there's a nagging at the back of his skull that he should have clued into all this much, much sooner.

The figure offers out a hand. There's golden rings adorning their fingers, the same tight embroidery from the hem in gold and silver and purple (a pattern of clovers and violets and buttercups) reflected on the sleeve cuff. The material is rich in colour and clean and worth more than Akaashi can imagine. The figure's skin is mid brown, smooth and rough at the same time.

Akaashi reaches out to take it. Even before their hands meet, he can feel the energy from it. His fingers hover, and he feels suddenly anxious, nervous, a deep churn in his chest. He takes a deep breath. He brushes the tips against the figure's hand.

A fire crawls up his arm, sharp, painful, and Akaashi flinches with his entire body, but he does not draw back. It feels like magic, it feels like what lightning must, with the force of the ocean waves and eternity. He slides his hand a bit further, and the figure's hand begins to curl around his, and the fire keeps spreading and it scorches his veins, the pressure making him feel the twist of the sky above his head and the fingers close bit by bit by-

The ground splits, cracks, crashes apart beneath Akaashi's feet. A sound rings in his ears louder than he ever could imagine, a giant fissure sounding throughout his mind from ear to ear. The figure clamps down his hand, and for a brief second, they are fully connected. The painful heat spreads from Akaashi's veins to his heart (pounding) to his lungs (straining) to his eyes (wide) in a second. For the first time, with the fire burning in his mind, he can see through the shadow across the figure's face.

Stark white hair, streaked with black. A toothy mouth, open, shocked. A youthful face, ageless and unmarred. And the eyes. Eyes made of fire and light, rolling colours of orange and red and yellow, glinting and ancient, an eternal burning. Eyes that are made of the first dawn and will see the last. Eyes that shift in colour even as their hands slip apart, even as the crash sounds again through Akaashi's ears, and his feet fall from under him into a dark pit.

Eyes burning with anger and disappointment and frustration.

Eyes like the daybreak.

Eyes like the candle beside his bed.

"Bokuto," he Prays, and although he stretches, he cannot reach his God again.

 

* * *

 

The dream breaks with a resounding crash, and there's nothing Bokuto can do to stop it. Akaashi slips out of his grip, slips down into the hole that leads between the dreaming world and the waking world, the path back down to his Mortal body. Bokuto hears his name, his true name, tumble from Akaashi's lips, and watches him reach up the impossible distance. How is it, with all the strength of a God, he cannot keep one Mortal from waking?

(Akaashi has never said his name aloud before.)

The gap closes, the dream ends, and Bokuto is standing in his own room, draped with curtains and cloths, filled with windows and stray clothing and pillows. His fingers have the faintest trace of Akaashi's presence still. His hand had been smooth and surprisingly brave. His hair had been matted with flowers, little drops of white and yellow and purple in his dark curls. The greens in his eyes were on full display, darker than the grass, brighter than the sky. The power and willingness in his heart so clear to read.

Bokuto's yell of frustration is loud enough to echo throughout the Heavens and shatter his windows. He grabs fistfuls of hair as the glass sprays to the ground, rainbows of sheens and hues. He shakes his head, stomps around in a circle, throws his hands in the air. Flashes of light scatter throughout the room, blindingly brilliant and pure white, exploding with pops as deafening as his voice.

"Idiot! You were so _close!_ How did you manage to mess this up?" Bokuto throws himself onto his bed, staring at the canopy covered in swirls and patterns and embroidered by his own hands. He glares at them, his eyes burning into Sagittarius and Pegasus and Orion. "You didn't even _speak_ to him!"

Like any dignified God, Bokuto lies on his back and balls his hands into fists and groans. Stupid. He's so stupid. The first time he tried he hadn't even been able to break into Akaashi's regular dream. The second Akaashi had gone and interpreted his appearance as a sign. And this time, when he was so close to getting to say hello, of course Akaashi wakes up. Of course.

Bokuto isn't going out today, that's for sure.

In the silence that follows, as Bokuto's rage drains into an emptiness, he half listens to the beginnings of the Prayers rolling in, but he does not move from his spot. Let them Pray and complain about the clouds. His heart sinks in his chest and he traces the swirls and patterns above him with his eyes, his lips forming ever so slowly into a pout. Kuroo's going to have a laugh at him over this.

It isn't long before Akaashi's Prayer creeps up his spine and lodges in his heart. It's full of praise and promise and gratitude. Even upset, angry, Bokuto can't help but curl a hand over his chest and listen as word after word comes tumbling in. He feels his powers swell, and he wills his mind to settle, but it churns all the same.

Bokuto can't help but think of that same voice calling his name, mere feet away, mere moments ago. He can't help but want to hear it again.

 

* * *

 

Akaashi's eyes fly open, with a gasp of breath and a pound in his heart. His arm is outstretched above his head, his fingers warm.

He sits up. His sheets are twisted. His face is covered in a sheen of sweat, and he feels warm, uncomfortably warm, burning hot, and though he throws off the sheets and tears the shirt off his back, it does not help. Flowers (clovers and violets and buttercups) tumble from his hair onto his lap. His breaths come in deep, shuddering gasps. In the low light from beyond the curtains, he can see a former stack of papers scattered across his floor, and one of his astrolabes shattered beside it. The crashes he heard.

He's been dreaming. He needs to write it down.

The candle beside his bed is out, and it's the first time he's woken up without it lit in three months. He doesn't know what to do. He fumbles for flint, for anything, and his mind is slow to catch up and remember he has the power to light candles with the wave of his hand. He concentrates, and the flame is a bit big (and like the rest of him, too hot), but it's enough to get him by. His hands shake as he dips the quill into the inkpot. He scribbles down the date.

It takes twenty minutes for him to transcribe every moment he remembers of his dream. Each detail, each sensation, the shape of the land, the clothes on his back. He tries to convince himself that perhaps it was symbolic, perhaps it was a message, but the heat in his body and the flowers in his lap are too real for the dream to be anything but truth. The feeling of his hand, touching a God. The colours and emotions behind the Sun God's eyes. The raw anger that set an extra fire blazing as Akaashi fell through realms and lifetimes from dreaming to waking.

Akaashi does not know what could upset a God like that. He can only guess that whatever it was the Sun God meant to say, or do, he did not get to it. Akaashi thinks, perhaps, he won't share this dream with the others just yet. He does not want to feel that wrath directed at him.

Knowing it's well past daybreak, he offers his Prayer from his spot on the bed. He thanks his God for the attempt, and especially for the candle, though he doesn't know if that was intentional. He talks about the beauty of his dream, how he still has flowers tangled in his hair, and he can only imagine what the others will say if he can't get them all out. How he promises to tidy his room and avoid this next time. Should there be a next time. How he is very curious as to what the God wishes (though he stops short of questioning what made the God angry).

Finished, Akaashi stands. He crosses his room to his papers, looking forlornly down at the mess. Dates and pages are jumbled, and there are pieces of metal scattered between them, sharp and foreboding. He'll need more light before he can begin this. He throws open the curtains.

Thick, grey clouds fill every inch of the sky, pale near the horizon, dark and ominous overhead. There's an unseasonable haze around the ground. Fog covers the distant shores of the sea from view, but the loud crashing of whitecaps can be heard. The sill is cool, cold air rushing between the small gap between it and the pane of glass.

The Sun is sulking. He should have guessed.


End file.
